Dan Wakefield - Under the Apple Tree - A Novel

Ribs O’Mahoney was Camp Commander, but the actual Chief of Cho-Ko-Mo-Ko, the adult man in charge of the whole thing, like the Principal was in charge of high school, was Victor L. “Pops” Hagedorn. Pops was a large, shambling man who slicked back his thinning hair with Brylcreem, but always looked sloppy somehow in his uniform, the knee socks never straight, the neckerchief askew, the shirt always coming untucked out of his pants. The important thing was that everyone agreed Pops had a heart as big as all outdoors. He didn’t have any kids of his own or even a wife but he was Father to the kids in his Latin class at Oakley Central, and in summers was Pops to the Scouts of Cho-Ko-Mo-Ko.

Pops had summoned Artie to a private pow-wow with him at Shagbark Hickory, which was the name of the Chief’s cabin. Both the man and the boy sat in cross-legged Indian fashion on the floor of the cabin. Pops was filling his pipe, and as always, tobacco was spilling out and settling in flakes on his knobby knees. Artie wished he would hurry, knowing that Pops never really got to the point in a serious pow-wow until he had his pipe stoked up and burning.

Artie could already feel his own cheeks burning, knowing he was here because Ben Vickman had reported his dirty deed to the Chief. That was terrible, and Artie was totally shamed, full of the guilt he knew was his due, but still he was thankful that Ben Vickman hadn’t squealed to the other Scouts. That would have even been worse, and Artie had to hand it to Ben for being a square shooter by keeping his trap shut to everyone but the Chief. On the other hand, going to the Chief just showed what a serious crime had been committed. It flashed through Artie’s mind that the appropriate punishment for sneaking away from a Bird Study Hike to whack off in full daylight in a cabin of Camp Cho-Ko-Mo-Ko, B.S.A., might be for the culprit to have his “privates beaten to jelly.”

When the Chief finally got his pipe stoked up, with the clouds of tobacco smoke curling around his head, he spoke more in sadness than anger.

“Artie,” he said, “you know what you did was wrong.”

“Worse than that,” Artie volunteered with eagerness. “It was dirty.”

The Chief nodded, looking wise and sorrowful.

“I’m sure you’ve read what the Scout Manual has to say on the subject.”

“Yes, sir, many times.”

It was true. There was a chapter in the “Health and Safety” part of the Official Boy Scout Manual called “Conservation,” and although it didn’t use any of the actual words like jerking or whacking off or whipping the puppy, it said that all boys got these “urges” sometimes, and when they felt such bad desires coming on them, they should take cold showers and long walks. It also recommended “hip baths,” where the boy beset with lust sat in a tub of lukewarm water with his behind and his gonads soaking in the water and his legs hanging out over the edge. Artie had discussed this remedy with Warren Tutlow, but they started giggling, thinking how stupid they would look sitting in a washtub like that. And what if your folks came in and saw you, how were you to explain what the heck you were doing soaking your behind and gonads in a washtub of lukewarm water? Wouldn’t it be a dead giveaway that you were full of evil thoughts that were so hard to control you had to resort to such extreme measures?

“And you’ve also read the part of the Bible, about how it’s wrong to ‘spill your seed’?” Pops continued.

“Yes, sir,” Artie said.

He had always wanted to ask why it said the wrong thing was “spilling your seed on the ground,” whether doing it “on the ground” was even worse than doing it on blankets or in a sleeping bag, but he didn’t think this was the time to go into that.

“All boys have such desires,” the Chief said sadly.

At least that made Artie feel normal.

“But they have to learn to control them,” said the Chief.

Now Artie felt crummy again, realizing he lacked self-control, willpower, and other stuff that made you have character. Maybe he would end up a bum hopping freight cars and getting tattoos. He could team up with Fishy Mitchelman and ride the rails, doing odd jobs to scrounge enough money to buy some cheap wine and maybe a can of Spam to heat up for dinner on a Sterno stove.

“For your awn sake,” the Chief went on, “you must save yourself.”

“I was already baptized,” Artie said, “but maybe it didn’t ‘take.’”

“I didn’t mean in the religious sense,” the Chief said, “though of course that’s important, too, and the strength of the Lord should be able to help you in exercising self-control. What I meant was, you should save yourself for when you get married.”

“When I get married? ” Artie asked, knowing that was quite a ways off.

The Chief nodded, his eyes misting over.

“Someday,” he said, “you’ll meet a nice girl. The ‘right girl.’ You’ll want to settle down, and have children. Then you can use your seed in the way the Lord intended. Until then, for the sake of your future wife, as well as your own sake, you must try to save yourself.”

“Until I get married,” Artie repeated, wanting to make sure.

“Right now, it must seem a long way off, but the years fly by.”

Years!

Most guys didn’t get married till around twenty-one or so. That was nine years that Artie was supposed to go without spilling any of his seed. Was it because if you wasted too much of your seed you wouldn’t have enough left over to make babies? He wanted to ask, but was afraid. He remembered how overpowering the dirty desire was when it came over him, and he figured if he had any chance of resisting it he would have to spend the next nine years of his life taking hikes, cold showers, and hip baths. He would have to practically spend every night sitting in a washtub of lukewarm water with his legs dangling over the edge. Then he thought of something even worse than waiting nine years.

“What if you never get married?” he asked.

The Chief clamped down on his pipe and coughed. Fiery ashes spilled out onto his bare knees, and he swatted at them like hornets.

“I didn’t mean you, sir,” Artie said quickly, “I just meant in general.”

“The Lord finds different paths for all of us,” the Chief said. “I have my own children. My wonderful boys. Hundreds of them, in class and at Camp, year after year. You are one of them, son.”

The Chief, with his eyes all watery now, reached out and placed a sweaty palm on Artie’s knee.

O God , Artie prayed in silence, please don’t let Chief Hagedorn be a pre-vert .

Artie bowed his head and sat frozen, not even twitching a muscle. But then the Chief just gave his knee a couple of pats and took his hand away.

Artie breathed again.

“It will all work out, according to God’s plan,” the Chief said. “You will find, if you do your best to preserve yourself, God will sometimes help you, relieve you of excess, during your sleep, when His will and not thine be done.”

It was okay to have wet dreams, then. Well, that was something, at least. Maybe it would make Artie get more sleep, knowing there might be a heavenly reward for it.

“Now,” the Chief said, “I want you to put all this behind you and get out there for the rest of camp and throw yourself into Scouting with everything you have.”

“Yes, sir!” Artie said, pulling his legs out of the Indian squatting position.

Artie figured he had lots to be grateful for. He had not been stripped of his rank of Second Class Scout, or sent home in shame, or made an example of, much less had his privates beaten to jelly. It was now up to him to spend the rest of Camp swimming and hiking and baking potatoes in the mud and all that good, healthy stuff, harder than any other kid in Camp, to try to make up for his dirty deed and so wear himself out that he wouldn’t even think about it again.